by Sara Alexi
He thinks to ask the other people how long they have been stationary, but he cannot see the point. He waits. They all wait. One says he needs to pass water; the others shrug. It is hot. Another says he is thirsty; the others do not bother to shrug. They wait. Aaman drifts in and out of sleep. There is a smell of urine.
The van door opens and a guard beckons them out. They are at the back of some building. Aaman blinks, adjusting to the light, and a force in his back propels him towards the open door. They totter down the corridor into a stairwell. Several other police have appeared. The police laugh as if the day is a joke. They beckon one of the group, one apiece. Aaman is chosen by a tall man who has his black uniform bomber jacket and white shirt open to his waist. His hair is lank and his fingers yellow from smoking.
Aaman is pushed into a room by the tall guy’s baton. The room is pale green. There is a metal table and two plastic chairs. The tall policeman sits heavily and indicates for Aaman to sit. He has a form and a pen. He takes out a cigarette but does not offer one to Aaman. He lights it, picks tobacco from his tongue and begins.
“Name?”
“Aaman.”
“Surname?”
“Aaman.” Aaman’s face is rigid.
“Aaman Aaman?”
“Yes.”
“Ox Aman!” A Turkish phrase of exasperation. The guard rolls his eyes. “OK. Are you here legally?”
“No.”
“Have you any papers?”
“No.
“By coming to Greece without papers you have committed an illegal act. You have twenty-four hours to either get papers or leave the country.” The tall man stands, opens the doors and indicates that Aaman should leave.
“I don’t understand.”
“You have twenty-four hours to leave the country or get papers.”
“I can go?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask something?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we?” Aaman is standing but has not made a move to leave the room.
“Athens.”
“Thank you. Can I ask another thing?”
“What?” The tall man is shifting his weight from one foot to another, ready to close the door after them.
“How am I supposed to leave the country with no money and no papers?” Aaman walks out of the room.
“That, my friend, is not my problem.” He closes the door and walks off down the corridor, leaving Aaman alone. Another policeman who passes him points to the exit sign. Aaman walks out onto the streets of Athens. He has been in custody for two days.
He stands still for several moments.
The man from Uzbekistan comes out of the same exit. “So what now?”
“I have no idea,” Aaman replies. “We are no more or less illegal than when they picked us up. We are just further from what we know.”
“I suppose that they have cleared the area where we were to only increase the number of illegals where we are now. There is no money or time to ship us back. We just get passed on, someone else’s problem. Well, God be with you.” He pats Aaman on the shoulders and walks off down the streets.
“Hello.” It is the Indian who was worried about his wife. Aaman doesn’t reply. “I have heard it told but I never believed it.”
Aaman concedes to the man’s insistence. “What?”
“That the police let the Indians go easily because they don’t make paperwork. They don’t pretend to be legal so there is nothing to check on, no false trails. We are easy so they deal with us first.” He smiles as he speaks. “I could be home in a month, God willing. It will take that long to earn the money to buy the ticket home. So long.”
Aaman starts walking. The names of the streets are meaningless, the buildings tall and impersonal. He has no sense of direction and nowhere to be. The cars travel four deep on the roads, motorbikes nipping between them like impatient small dogs. Horns sound, people shout. Men driving, one elbow on the windowsill, cigarette dangling, sunglasses on. Another motorbike, no helmet, white shirt being pulled from his back by the wind he creates. Women clacking along in high heels, lots of makeup. Men in suit trousers, bellies pushing shirts over trousers on hips, ties loosened. People sitting outside their shops on stools, smoking, chatting to the next person sitting outside his shop on a stool, smoking, chatting. Taxis, yellow, stopping, starting. People in. People out. Aaman feels dizzy. He leans against a shop.
An Indian man passes carrying a tray of bread rings.
“Excuse me?” Aaman uses his native tongue. It feels strange.
“Yes, hello. You look like you are having a hard time, my fellow.”
“Where is the best place to go to find work? I need to earn enough to get back to the lady I work for.”
“Nowhere and everywhere. Good work is hard to find. If you want any work, go to Omonia Square and ask around. Best place to start as any.” He hands Aaman a bread ring and continues his trail.
“Thank you. Which way?” The man points. Aaman walks.
Chapter 15
Juliet pretends she is still asleep, not really lying there listening for the metallic tapping sound on her gate at a ridiculously early time in the morning.
Cockerels are crowing, light creeps in between the shutters and warmth seeps under the door, indicating the night is over.
Juliet gives up diving for dreams and sits up. She is still pleased by the sight of her beamed ceiling, the white walls, her own little nest. She reaches for the clock and knocks over the wine glass, one of the several she drank the night before. The glass pieces shatter as far as they can in every direction, the red wine stains at the point of impact, a bullet wound on the white floor. She recalls why she drunk so much.
She curses and tiptoes across to her flip-flops, which for some forgotten reason she hung, one on the window handle and one from an old nail in the wall, the previous wine-filled night.
She pulls on her jeans and t-shirt, leaves the crime scene and heads for coffee in the kitchen. The back door has been open all night, and the cat has returned and is asleep on the table. She lifts it off and dumps it on the sofa, where it yawns and stretches before orientating itself enough to recognise Juliet is in the kitchen area and runs over meowing its excited anticipation. Later in the day, the second cat reappears, looking slightly fatter than she remembers.
After a week of steady watering, the bean plant, twisting around a tripod of canes, regains some strength. Some leaves drop, some recover. The beans themselves do not plump out. They remain skinny and dry, hidden amongst the leaves. Juliet’s thin fingers caring and tending.
The grass needs cutting every few days, the garden vibrant with growth and energy before the onset of the real heat of the summer. Juliet struggles with the electric lawnmower, fearful of cutting through its umbilical cord. Weeds grow overnight. Tucked behind the gate post, a large, spiky succulent manages to reach a foot tall before Juliet notices.
It creeps on Juliet like bindweed; he is not coming back. As the days pass, the bindweed coats her limbs and she feels heavy. She cannot find a reason to care for the garden, her translation falls behind.
She wanders aimlessly around the house and garden.
The tools lie neatly organised and ready for use at the back of the house. Crafted from boards, stiff wooden vegetable boxes, old wooden broom handles, and uprights of wood Aaman must have found in the original mess of the garden are shelves that house the tools. The shelves bring tears to Juliet eyes.
“Bye, Tzuliet. Ah, Mrs Sophia. Yes! She is still seeing the boy. She has been seeing him most weekends. Yes, you are right. They are well suited. I thought when they met it would have been instant, but they are taking their time, which I am pleased about. I am not one to interfere, but I think I will invite his family over again, just to be sure.”
Juliet waves as she leaves, armed with postcards and stamps. Filling her days with volumes of translation, Juliet is blinkered from her solitude. It is safe, it is painless. But after some time, thoughts
of the boys push themselves behind her stockade. Time seems to have stretched out and Juliet is not sure how long it has been since she talked to them. She’ll surprise them with cards.
The grass is dry and soft. Juliet lies on her stomach, sunglasses on, hair in a high ponytail, bikini bottoms, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. She takes out a postcard and looks at the picture of an old man bent under the weight of the bundle of sticks he carries. It is in sepia tones to make it look old. To Juliet, it is a daily view of her village life. The second card is of a sepia-toned man with a herd of goats, shepherd’s crook in hand, and a handlebar moustache. Juliet looks closely. He is wearing Nike trainers. She laughs.
Dear Thomas, Old-fashioned snail mail!
She puts the pen end in her mouth. She has no idea what to write.
The garden is looking lovely. Unfortunately the man who was helping me has been called away, so I guess it will be up to me. I have more and more translation work all the time. The British council have me on their books, and I seem to be getting a regular supply of work from them, almost too much, both by email and by post.
I hope you and Cheri can find the time to come and visit. I know that both time and finances are short so no pressure
Much Love,
Mum
The cat comes to investigate what Juliet is doing lying on the lawn. He climbs onto Juliet’s legs and walks up to settle in a ball on the small of her back. Juliet tries to bend her arm around to stroke him. The cat digs its claws in to stop from sliding off as Juliet’s contortion unsettles his bed. Juliet rolls over on the grass as the claw tips make contact with nerve endings and the cat leaps to safety. Juliet calls him back but he heads for the edge of the lawn, disappearing under a dense plant with purple flowers. The sun lulls Juliet into a brief snooze. She wakes gently and resumes her postcard writing.
Dear Terrance,
I hope your studies are going well and your landlord is happy! I love Greece although a friend of mine left recently and I miss him. He has been gone two weeks already! I am sure I will make more friends although some people are just special. Talking of which, have you seen any more of the girl who was helping you with your thesis? It would be lovely to see you over here but I do understand. No more room. Love M xxx
Juliet rolls onto her back and feels the sun on her face. The cat jumps on her chest and she strokes it. It is time to get back to doing translation work.
After some days of intense translation, Juliet feels she is on top of the recent glut of work she has received. With no structure to the day, she often finds herself working into the night and getting up too late to enjoy the next day. When Aaman had been around, the day had structure, work got done earlier, which meant she had time to make progress on the inside of the house. Work on the house has ground to a standstill.
The paint tin is stiff to open, and Juliet looks around for a piece of paper to stand it on to catch accidental spillage as she prizes open the lid. All her paper that she uses for translation work is in the bedroom on the desk. There was a slightly scrunched piece next to the telephone. Juliet puts down the paint tin and the screwdriver and crosses the room to the telephone. The paper has Michelle’s name written at the top and her number written below in bold handwriting with the word RING HER in capital letters at the bottom. It is Juliet’s handwriting.
She recalls the way Aaman had smiled when she had last been on the phone to Michelle. She wipes her hands on her painting shirt, just in case, and picks up the receiver.
“Michelle? It’s the evening!”
“Yes, it is. How nice of you to call.”
“Is it a lonely evening or one in which you are busy and I am interrupting you?”
“It is not a lonely evening. It is amazing how quickly that seems to be wearing off since I spoke to you. However, you’re only interrupting me from painting the office, so I am glad you have called.”
“I was just about to paint the door to the guest room. White. How about you?”
“Shocking pink! He had that room dowdy colours for so long I decided to openly overcompensate. How’s your house boy?”
Juliet’s tongue dries, her heart beats a little faster.
“Are you still there or have I said something to make you slam the phone down? Juliet?” Michelle is giggling.
“He got arrested.” Juliet rubs her eyes with the finger and thumb of her free hand.
“What? What did he do? Are you all right? Did he steal from you or hurt you? Oh my God, are you all right?”
“Stop, stop. I’m fine.” Juliet sighs. “He was taken because he was illegal. I tried to find where they have taken him to try and help, I don’t know, help him get his papers or something, vouch for him, something. But they couldn’t find him. They have shipped him from one detention centre to another but the paper trail got mixed up and no one knows where he is.” Juliet can no longer hide her tears, and she sniffs loudly.
“Juliet, are you crying? Are you OK?”
“Yes, I’m OK, I’m all right, I’m fine.” There is a pause, Juliet looks around, sniffs again and reaches for tissues from the table.
“So this house boy ... come on, I can’t keep calling him that. What’s his name?”
“Aaman.” The word brings peace to Juliet and her crying stops.
“Aaman got taken for being illegal, you have tried to find him but haven’t had any luck, and you’re crying because you haven’t found him. That’s what it sounds like. Is that what is going on?”
“Yes.”
“Are you crying over Aaman because he was a great gardener or did something happen between you guys?”
“No, yes, no, not really. We just talked. He is, or rather was teaching himself to programme through the Internet in the evening on my laptop. He works all day in the garden. He built shelves at the back for the garden tools. He put the vines on poles ready to build a pergola.”
“Juliet, have you fallen for this guy?”
“No! He’s married. He loves Saabira. He plans to go back to Pakistan as a programmer. He’s going to buy a harvester with the rest of the village. He wants to have children with her.”
“That’s a lot of personal talking you guys have been doing if he is just a gardener. Can you hear yourself?”
Juliet sobs and blows her nose.
“Yes, I can hear myself. I can hear how it sounds. He is my friend, Michelle. He was in a fire when he was eight, he lost his brother. I care about him.”
“Ahh, that sounds heavy. Have you no idea where they took him?”
“I spent days trying to trace him. I went to the Pakistani Embassy. I even went to the British Embassy to see if anything could be done from there or if they could tell me what to do. I have been to the police station where they first took him and then every police station from here to the northern suburbs of Athens. I have even rung Fylakio. That’s a jail up near the border of Greece and Turkey.”
“Can he write, I mean does he know how, in English?”
“Yes, but if he is in a detention centre, are they allowed?”
“I don’t know. How long has he been gone?”
“It’s a month now.”
“That’s not so long, Juliet. Do you know what the usual routine is? I presume they will want to deport him. How do they do that? Do they fly them home, or just hand them over at the nearest border to their home countries? If they have sent him home, it may take time. He is bound to write when he gets home if he feels the same way as you.”
“I have no idea how he feels. He is kind and considerate and cautious and thoughtful. But he could just be doing it for the job, I don’t know.”
“People don’t talk about trying for children with their wives to keep a job, Juliet. That goes way beyond.”
“I think he thinks I am a good friend who is lending her computer. I shared some of my life with him, and he shared some of his life with me.”
“You shared about the fire?”
“Yes, and my dad. Which, by the way, reminds me, due to
him, I owe you an apology.”
“Apologise to me? This is too confusing. Because of Aaman?”
“He made it ‘visible,’ I suppose that is the word, that I have not been, well, very nice to you over the years. When my dad went and my mum being the way she is and then finding Dad had died and, well just the whole everything, I realised I was scared of you so I pushed you away.”
“Scared of me? Why would you be scared of me?”
“Not scared of you exactly, scared that you might ... like Dad did, or become a bitch like my mum or that girl at college who went off with John. It just felt, well, safer, I suppose, not to be friendly, and I am sorry. I am really sorry. You have stayed by me through all of this and even through my Huge Mistake with Mick.” Juliet hiccups out a laugh at the thought of the Huge Mistake with Mick. Michelle mirrors the laugh back.
“Juliet, this guy has really shaken you up a lot, hasn’t he?”
“I miss him so much. I thought he was a gardener, then I thought he was a friend, then, well, then he was gone and my reaction has left me not understanding myself. I was just so comfortable with him, I loved him being around. Oh, and I went to see where he used to stay. He said it was a barn, and I thought of an old English barn with little beds and comfy chairs at one end like a hostel and, oh my God, Michelle, it was awful. It was made of mud brick, it had a mud floor. A tiled roof that you could see the daylight through and no doubt mocked the rain. No comfy chairs, no chairs at all. And the beds! They weren’t beds, they were shelves in the wall. Just enough room to lie on. They were all worn smooth on the edges and there was so much graffiti carved and written. Names and dates and days counted off like a prison cell. And he lived there! Whilst each night, I spread out in my double bed with clean sheets and a duvet and my cats.”
“Cats? More than one now?”
“Two. By accident, I found the bunk he must have lain on. He had carved the name Saabira, his wife’s name, and then under that, in capitals, he had carved JULIET and now he is gone.” Juliet breaks into tears anew.